Glass Girl

by Kurk, Laura Anderson

  I sat up so fast that Henry jumped. “What’s wrong, honey?”

  “What would stop me from being baptized right here, right now?”

  He looked at me, shook his head, and narrowed his eyes. “I was just thinking very impure thoughts about you, and you, you’re asking me about baptism?”

  He smiled my favorite smile as his chest shook with quiet laughter.

  But I needed an answer, so I rushed on. “So? Here is water, right?”

  He grabbed my face and lowered his head to look directly into my eyes, and suddenly his voice was soft and more serious than I’d ever heard it. “Meg, there’s not a thing in this world stopping you. Do you want me to baptize you right now—because I would give anything I have to do that.”

  I felt myself crying—but it wasn’t coming from that familiar place of sorrow anymore. It had nothing to do with Wyatt, or my parents. I cried because of this crazy, determined pounding that I felt in my chest. I was desperate to be connected to the mystery of a Creator who wanted me—even after I hated him, even after I blamed him for Wyatt and every other pain I’d ever felt in my heart. I craved the peace and the hope that I’d seen in Henry and his family. I felt like I’d cracked open a door, and my soul gulped in the air and shouted, “Finally, you thick-headed nitwit!” It all occurred to me so quickly that I wondered why I hadn’t thought of it before. Of course, I thought, of course. I was breathless with certainty.

  “Yes, Henry. I do. Can you do that for me?”

  He hugged me hard and I felt him trembling.

  “Sweetheart, this is the most important moment of your entire life. You realize that, don’t you? Nothing has come before, and nothing will come after that will touch this. Not getting married or raising babies. This is between you and God.”

  “I know.” I nodded and smiled.

  “You’re asking to turn your life over to Jesus and he’s going to wash you clean. He’s going to save you, Meg, and you’ll never be alone again. Tell me, right now, that you believe with all your heart that Jesus is who he says he is and that he can do this for you.”

  “I believe, Henry,” I said through my tears. “I know that he is God’s son and that he can save me.”

  He smiled and I saw that he was crying, too. The beauty of that image—of Henry being moved to tears—will stay with me for the rest of my life.

  “Then, sweet Meg, it is my unbelievable, mind-blowing honor to baptize you for the forgiveness of your sins in Jesus’ name…right here, right now.”

  He carried me out to a waist-deep area of the springs and stood me up in front of him. He shook his head, trying to wrap his mind around this rapid turn of events, and with tears rolling down his cheeks, he gently placed his hand over my mouth and nose and his other hand behind my head and he leaned me back into the warm water until I was completely submerged, and then he pulled me up and into his chest. He laughed and cried at the same time, and I smiled as he crushed me into him. I knew without a doubt that neither of us would ever forget this moment, not for all of eternity.

  On the way home, tucked under Henry’s arm in the truck, I breathed easier because I felt such tremendous relief.

  “Thank you, Henry. For helping me. I’m sorry I overreacted about Brooke.”

  “It’s okay, Meg. You didn’t do or say anything wrong. Maybe tomorrow we’ll laugh about it. You don’t own a Louisville Slugger, do you? Because I value my truck’s headlights an awful lot.”

  “I’m not finding that funny yet, Henry.”

  He chuckled softly and the sound of it warmed me.

  I have no idea where all that insecurity came from but I never want to feel like that again. I wasn’t myself, at all. The worst part of it was that I know what I felt was just a taste of what Matthew Wharton felt about Bailey—the whole insane jealousy thing. I was ashamed for hating Matthew so much, and that thought sent heat coursing down my arms and across my face.

  “I’m so sorry,” I whispered again, to Henry…to Wyatt…to my parents…to Bailey…and, yes, to Matthew.

  I woke up at four o’clock in the morning today and couldn’t go back to sleep. I’d been both dreading this day and looking forward to it for weeks. Today I’d give my presentation in Landman’s class. I worried about the moment that my friends would learn about Wyatt. What if someone yawned right when I said his name or, God forbid, dozed off while I talked about his death? I knew that there’d be a cataclysmic shift in their perception of me. I knew that I’d no longer have a buffer of ignorance around me. At the same time, I looked forward to the relief of full disclosure. I craved transparency.

  To keep my wits about me while I dressed this morning, I thought about my mom, wishing she could be here. Right now, surprisingly, she represented a bright spot in my life. Since we’d left her at Harrison-Gregg nearly two months ago, she’d made unbelievable progress. Her psychiatrist sends weekly e-mail reports to Dad and tells of her determination to get well and move back to Wyoming. She’d done well on new medication, and instead of being bitter toward Dad for committing her, she had asked him for forgiveness. Dad’s been walking on sunshine for the last few weeks—whistling to himself, running in the morning again, writing her long letters, and spending hours with her on the phone during her “one call a week” on Saturdays.

  Last Saturday night, after Henry dropped me off, I found Dad in her studio, straightening the shelves and cleaning the windows. I peeked in and he smiled at me.

  “Want some hot chocolate?” I asked.

  He sat down on Mom’s painting stool. “Yeah, that sounds great.”

  “I’ll meet you on the back porch in a minute.”

  “Okay, babe.”

  I made two mugs of hot chocolate and kicked open the kitchen screen door to the back porch. Dad waited there for me, sitting on the steps with his legs kicked out in front of him, looking up at the stars.

  “We sure didn’t have a view like this in Pittsburgh, did we?” he asked when he heard me coming.

  “Not at all.”

  “I love it here, Meg. How about you?”

  I sighed. “Yeah, Dad. I love it here. I don’t want to go back to Pittsburgh, or to any other city. Brace yourself, but I don’t know if I’ll look at Penn.”

  He snorted softly. “Penn is not a priority, Meg. Maybe something closer, like the University of Wyoming? I talked to your mom a little while ago. She’s really looking forward to being here. I hate to get my hopes up, but I can’t help it. I want her here, with me, with us.”

  “I know, Dad. I think now that she feels good, she’ll really like it. She’ll have her studio and how could this place not inspire her?”

  We drank our hot chocolate in silence, watching the stars and listening to the pines rustling in the breeze. It was a poignant moment for both of us. That tender hopefulness that we were just beginning to feel—just stoking into something real—made the air feel charged around us. I remember thinking that this was the moment Robin predicted would happen so many months after Wyatt’s death. She said I’d get it. I’d understand that life was intrinsically precious, and I would grasp that better than most people.

  After we finished our hot chocolate and sat in silence staring at the stars for a while, I patted him on the shoulder and went to my room. I felt oddly uncomfortable alone in my room—like my soul was restless. I paced the floor and turned on some music, and then I did something I’d never done. I got down on my knees next to my window, and I looked up into the sky, and I prayed. Being a new Christian, I was scared I would say something wrong, but I just felt so thankful for the changes in my life. When I finished, I felt at ease and calm. I slept deeply that night.

  Dad pulled me back into my present state of nerves when he opened my door and stuck his head in to wish me luck on my presentation. “You can do this, Meg. You’ve needed to talk this thing through for two years and you’ll feel lighter after today. Just know I’m really proud of you.”

  Later, in class, I listened to the other presentations, wondering
if Landman had forgotten me. Finally, when everyone else had spoken, he called on me. “Meg,” he said softly. “Are you ready?”

  I stood slowly and walked to the front of the class with my paper in its gray plastic cover. I gathered myself behind the shaky old metal podium, and tried to breathe normally for a second while I pretended to find my place. Without any introduction, I read the poem. And it truly is a beautiful poem—really heartwrenching and sweet and emotional and devastating. I glanced around as I read and noticed that people were actually listening to it. The poem sounded like it could be any of our parents talking, just two everyday people having an everyday fight. But, the point was, this was no everyday fight. It was a fight I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. A fight that I’d witnessed in my very own home.

  When I finished reading, I paused and glanced at Henry to steady myself. He caught my eye and touched his hand to his heart, significantly. I took a deep breath and dove in.

  Have you ever felt anguish so powerful that it made you afraid? That it made you want to draw into yourself because there’s no way another human being could comprehend? If you have, then you must draw on that memory, the taste it leaves in your mouth, and the feeling it leaves in your heart, to understand this poem.

  Imagine for a moment that you are a young wife, or husband. That your first and only child has just died. That you have had the awful duty of burying that child in your own yard. Would you turn to your spouse for comfort? It seems logical, right? It seems human to hold one another in our grief—to provide shelter for one another. But grief is a strange thing. You’d think it would always draw us together, that we would reach out, punch through our pain, to touch the faces of the people we love. Why would we want to be alone? But the fact is, we are alone in our grief—could it be any more ironic? If you haven’t felt it, I think it would surprise you how difficult it is to comfort one another in the face of unspeakable loss. This empty, terrifying, devastating place is where ‘Home Burial’ begins…and ends.

  I could hear my voice but it sounded like it came from another place entirely. I couldn’t concentrate on my words, but I’m pretty sure I said exactly what I’d written. I talked about how the husband in the poem didn’t understand his wife’s inability to move on, or even her refusal to tell him how she felt. I explained how the wife was blind to her husband’s grief, how to her he was just the cold, heartless creature who could bury her baby and then come inside with the mud of the grave on his boots and talk about, of all things, the weather. Frost wanted us to see that the “burial” happening was the demise of a relationship, as much as it was the laying to rest of a child.

  I glanced around at the faces staring at me. I saw obvious interest. No boredom registered yet. So I began the second half of my presentation—the difficult part where I must admit why I understood this poem so well. This part I knew by heart, so I looked into the eyes of my classmates, took a deep breath, and confessed my deepest, darkest secret.

  I know grief that eats at your soul because I’ve experienced it. Two years ago this month, my brother, Wyatt, was killed by a classmate at our high school outside of Pittsburgh. Life has been really hard ever since. We struggle every day to balance missing Wyatt with living our lives. We’ve all grieved in completely different ways, and sometimes—no, all the time—this creates tension and conflict at my house. In the last two years, everything about our lives has changed, and my parents have struggled to hold things together.

  When we moved here, I made the decision not to share my past with any of you. I didn’t want you to treat me any differently or feel sorry for me. I wonder, now, if that was the right decision. At the time, I thought it was my only choice. It was a survival instinct. I couldn’t allow your sympathy to affect me. Grief is personal, and it’s a journey. But I think Mr. Landman was right when he said that sometimes it’s best to share our pain with others, and let them divide it up so we have less to suffer. So that’s what I’m doing today.

  I never thought I’d be faced with analyzing a poem which held such personal meaning for me. I didn’t think I had a life interesting enough to be the subject of any poem. But here I am. I’ve learned that there are things about life that are tremendously difficult—things that break our hearts and our spirits. But these are the things that inspire us and others to survive. These are the moments that let us find a way to connect with others who have faced difficulty before and those who will face it one day in the future. We’re all in this together, and if we don’t learn from each other, we’re wasting our time, going in circles, and hurting those we love. I think Frost wanted us to hear that more than anything.

  I finally took a breath, and looked around the room. The faces looking back at me were unreadable, really. If I’d made a mistake, it was too late to fix it. Feeling lightheaded, I stumbled awkwardly back to my seat.

  Henry stood up and hugged me when I got to him, and I felt the tension leave my shoulders a bit. Landman still sat in his chair looking at the empty podium. The classroom fell completely silent, once Henry and I sat down. After what seemed like hours, Landman stood up and leaned against his desk, facing us. He smiled at me as he spoke.

  “Meg, you are a very brave young woman. I know that couldn’t have been easy; but I am more proud of you right now than I’ve been of any student in my teaching career. I want to thank you and tell you that your candor and insight will be a memorable part of this class. I think Frost would say, ‘Yes, Meg, yes. There are things in life that matter and things that don’t.’”

  Somehow, my eyes were still dry, which was good, a victory in itself. I blushed and stared at my paper as all eyes turned toward me. Henry took my hand and held it in his lap, and Tennyson rubbed my back. When class ended, a line of students wanted to hug me, thank me, and tell me they were sorry, exactly the things I’d tried to avoid by keeping Wyatt a secret. I thought it would kill me. And maybe it would’ve killed me a few months ago. But now, it felt good. I’d proven to myself that I won’t break and that was no small feat. And I’d honored Wyatt’s memory through my strength.

  Dear Wyatt—

  I want so badly to believe that you were with me in Landman’s class when I talked about you. And six months ago, I would’ve believed it. It’s crazy, I know. I felt you with me all the time—especially when I was scared. You held my hand.

  Maybe I know now that you’re not exactly following me around, but I still believe that you know me, that you think of me, but that you’re where you need to be and where you want to be. And you don’t want to come back to us.

  Yesterday was the day, you know—the two-year anniversary. And yesterday, I was standing in the pouring rain in the woods behind the house. I was trying to feel you. I was trying to force you to be here. But you simply weren’t. And it was okay. I said goodbye to you…for the first time. I whispered goodbye. Did you hear me?

  I miss you. I do. But I feel good now. I feel strong. I’m not going to break, no matter what happens to me. And much of my strength comes from copying you. I copied you. I always did. I always will.

  Mom is going to be okay, Wyatt. She’s coming home to us soon.

  Love,

  Meg

  The last days of school flew by too quickly. Henry graduated and started getting ready for his trip to Nicaragua, and I spent every minute I could with him. Good things were happening quickly with my mom. One evening, Dad knocked on my door and brought the phone in with him. “It’s your mom, Meg. She wants to talk to you.”

  He smiled broadly and I felt his joy as he handed me the phone.

  “Hi Mom! How are you?”

  “Meggie, I’m feeling so much better. Dad and I were just talking about my release in a couple of weeks. He’s going to fly in and help me pack and then we’ll drive to Chapin. I’ll be there soon, Meg, and we’ve got a lot of catching up to do.” She laughed, and it sounded like soft music warming my heart.

  “Henry leaves tomorrow, Mom. He really wanted to meet you before he left but he’ll be home for
Thanksgiving. He taught me to two-step last night.”

  “You, two-stepping, with a cowboy, under that big sky. That’s rich, Meg. I love it.”

  I giggled. “Yeah, I knew you would.”

  “I would’ve painted that. Tell me, does Henry wear a cowboy hat all the time?”

  “No, hardly ever. He wears a UW baseball cap when he’s working. It’s covered in dust and sweat, usually.”

  “He’s really wonderful, isn’t he, Meg?” she sighed.

  “He is. I’m going to miss him so much.”

  “I know you will, honey. I remember when I left your dad to go to Europe. We were apart for nine months and eleven days. I cried every day. I think I was testing him, to see how much he loved me, to see if he’d come get me. He did, of course, even though I wasn’t a very practical person. That’s something I’m working on now.”

  “Dad would do anything for you. He misses you like crazy. Earlier today I caught him on his knees, weeding your little bed of crocuses. I can’t wait for you to see them. The leaves are about four inches long. They’ll probably bloom in a few weeks.”

  I heard her breath catch. “I’d almost forgotten about them, Meg. I want to paint them. I want to see everything. But first, I just want to sit and look at your face, and Jack’s face, for a long time.”

  “I love you, Mom.”

  “I love you, too. I’ll see you very soon.”

  Dad took the phone back and disappeared into the hall talking quietly to her.

  Later, Henry picked me up to take me to his house. He had to finish packing and he wanted me with him. The night I’d dreaded since my first horse ride with Henry was upon me. His parents would drive him to Denver early tomorrow morning, and put him on a plane that would take him so far from me that I couldn’t even comprehend the distance.